A Brief History of Love
by twolves
Summary: PREVIOUSLY TITLED 'LOVE DISSECTED'. John is failing History, and his reluctant new tutor is none other than Sherlock Holmes, geek extraordinaire and notorious know-it-all. But when John finds himself falling for Sherlock, he begins to question everything-his life at Saint Dorsey's, his values, and the people that he's always called friends.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hello, friends. It's teen!lock, high school AU. I don't know anything about British schooling, aside from what I've gleaned from Harry Potter. Anyway...please read and review. Let me know if you enjoy it! :) **_

_Saint Dorsey's Academy, London, England_

_November_

His heart was free-fall. John Watson stared at the small black letter printed beside _History, Quarter 1. _An _F_. He wanted to crush to grade report, tear it into a thousand pieces, toss it in a bin and never think about it.

"I'm sure you know what this means," Mr. Burns informed him. The balding professor pinched the bridge of his nose. "You'll have to put in extra hours if you want to get an A on the exam in December."

John nearly groaned. Burns' exams were notoriously difficult-students rarely scored above a C average on them, it was unheard of to achieve anything higher than a B. But if John wanted to pass the class, he would be forced to do the impossible.

"Sir, I don't think I'll be able to-"

Burns cut him off with a loud _tsk_-_tsk_.

"Such negativity will only hinder your academic performance, Watson."

An even worse thought than having to repeat History struck him: his place on Dorsey's football team.

"Sir, please, I'm on the football team and they won't let me play if I'm failing a class-"

Burns interrupted again, this time silencing John with a stern glare.

"Your _hobbies _are hardly any of my concern, Mr. Watson."

Anger pulsed through John's veins, and he clenched his fists around the grade report. He wanted to shout at Burns, tell him that football wasn't just a hobby-it was his life. If he couldn't play football, he might as well throw away an athletic scholarship to university.

"I suggest that you work with one of your peers to improve your grade," Burns was saying. John bit back a snort; his friends were the sporting type, burly footballers who excelled at ramming each other at high speeds, kicking things into nets and very little else.

"See you later, _sir_," John muttered, gathering his things. He couldn't stand another second of Burns' nasally voice and cluttered office that reeked of sour milk.

"Good evening, Mr. Watson."

"I don't know what I'm going to do," John muttered, letting his head fall against the table. The dining hall was roaring with the noise of several hundred students eating, talking, and laughing, but all that John could hear was the sound of his future collapsing.

"You could cheat," Boris offered, spearing a potato and cramming it into his mouth. "You know, pay someone to do the homework for you rest of the semester."

John snorted.

"I'm broke. And it's not risking my neck for."

Boris shrugged.

"Suit yourself."

Timothy Greenwald poked him in the side.

"The old fucker won't help you himself?"

John shook his head.

"Said it's 'my responsibility' since I'm the one who's failing."

Tim nodded, lips wrapped around a plastic straw like it was a cigarette.

"Well, I'd help you if I could..."

Greg Lestrade, a burly twelfth year, leaned over Tim's shoulder.

"Does this mean you're off the team, mate?"

A hush fell over the group of footballers. There was no worse fate than being booted off the Dorsey Rangers, especially for a student who had been accepted to the school on a football scholarship.

"I don't know," John told them. "I'm going to talk to Coach Hester, see if he'll let me keep playing."

Greg gripped John's shoulder with a calloused hand.

"We won't let you go, mate. You're the best right wing we've got."

John offered him a weak smile. As much as he appreciated the concern of his teammates, there was nothing they could do to help. He stood, dumping his half-eaten dinner into the trash bin.

"I'm going to go," John announced to no one in particular. Then he turned and rushed from the dining hall, the grade report in his book bag weighing him down like an anchor.

Eager to escape from the cheerful clamor of the dining hall, John fled to the silent library. It was nearly empty, save for a handful of twelfth years who occupied the row of desktop computers. John selected a desk in the back corner, dropping his book bag and slumping into the wooden chair. He couldn't fathom anything worse than not being able to play football. It wasn't only the game that he loved-the roar of an excited crowd, the adrenaline that pumped through his veins as he chased the ball down the field...since John was a young boy, football had been his way out, his chance at a better life. Football was the reason that he was here, at the prestigious Saint Dorsey's, instead of the neighborhood public school.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone touched his shoulder.

"Christ!" John gasped, then realized that it was only Molly Hooper, a pale, thin girl in the year under him. He didn't know her very well, but they came from the same neighborhood in Chelsea; he remembered vaguely that her father was a garbage collector. Like him, Molly had been awarded a scholarship to Dorsey's, although he guessed that hers was academic.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "I just...I heard you talking earlier...in the dining hall, you know?"

John glanced down, ashamed that she had heard his desperate conversation.

"I, um, I know someone who can help you." She paused for a moment, looking around. "Sherlock Holmes, he's in your year."

_Oh, not bloody Holmes_. _Anyone but Holmes._

"I know him," John replied flatly. He didn't need to mention that Sherlock Holmes was widely regarded as a freak, and quite possibly the most hated member of Dorsey's student body; he was sure that Molly already knew this.

"You should ask him," she said, her voice quiet. Her pale fingers found the worn sleeve of her sweater and she began to pick nervously at the fabric. "He's brilliant, you know."

He wanted to say something, he wasn't quite sure what, but Molly was already whipping out of sight. Her thin form disappeared into the stacks of books, and John was left alone in silence.

**_Thanks for reading! Please review. _**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Story time: I accidentally deleted 'Love Dissected', which sucks because I think that people were actually reading it/reviewing it. Anyway, it's re-uploaded with a few edits. Please enjoy. _**

Saturday morning found John Watson pacing in front of Coach Hester's office, silently rehearsing his plea to stay on the team. He still felt woefully unprepared when a thickset man with a crew cut cracked the door open, looking bleary-eyed despite the steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

"Watson, what the hell are you doing here?" Hester glanced at his wristwatch. "It's barely seven."

John rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, sweat gathering on his palms.

"Sir-I've-failed-a-class-and-I'm-going-to-be-kicked-off-the-team," John said very quickly. Hester blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, then waved a pudgy hand.

"Repeat that, lad. Didn't catch anything you just said."

"I'm failing History," John muttered. "I'm going to be kicked off the team, aren't I?"

Hester heaved a sigh and took a long drink of coffee.

"Bloody school says I'll have to bench you until you're not failing, but you're not officially off the team," he said after a long while. John attempted to suppress a shout of joy, settling instead for a wide grin and shaking Hester's hand.

It was too early to tell anyone else the good news, so John wandered the empty campus alone, breathing in the icy morning air with a sense of relish. Everything seemed so much easier, so much more optimistic, in the light of day. Burns was a harsh grader who seemed to enjoy giving his students impossibly difficult assessments, but John hadn't been booted off the team. His lifeline had yet to be severed.

Then he saw him-striding across the grassy quad, arms laden with heavy books, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. John froze. His ticket back on the team was walking towards him, and his tongue felt heavier than lead.

"Holmes!" John croaked, before the other boy could make it to the stairwell. "I, uh-"

Sherlock drew closer, a look of extreme suspicion plastered on his pale face.

"I know who you are," he announced quietly. "You're John Watson, the footballer."

John almost said "_congratulations"_, but decided to keep the sneering remarks at bay. Sherlock Holmes might be unpopular, but he was smart. _Very _smart.

"Look, I need your help."

Sherlock smirked.

"I know."

"Know what?" John stammered. Sherlock casually shifted the enormous stack of books from one hip to the other.

"Burns approached me yesterday. I'll extend my tutoring services to you, free of charge."

John stepped backwards, shocked at both Sherlock's arrogance and the fact that Burns had taken charge of the situation. _I must be failing badly_, John thought. His stomach lurched a little. Still, he felt relieved that the confrontation was over with, and that it had taken place in a deserted part of the campus. The last thing he wanted people to see was his cavorting about with the school freak.

"Seven o'clock this evening, my room?" Sherlock suggested, raising one eyebrow.

"Can't," John replied shortly. "I've got to go to something..."

Sherlock eyed him with distaste.

"A social event, I assume."

John didn't answer.

"You're going to have to make sacrifices if you want to succeed, you know," Sherlock said sternly. He sounded all to much like Burns, and John rolled his eyes. Still, the boy had a point. John was no stranger to hard work-but he had never struggled academically before this. A few C's in Math and French, but otherwise he was a painfully average student.

"Fine," he conceded. "I'll see you then, Holmes."

At seven o'clock, John slunk up the second story to dormitory room 221. The rest of the team had rejoiced in the good news, but John had noted with disappointment that no one seemed to care when he turned down an invitation to a party-or rather, a group of students standing around smoking and drinking near the old rock quarry.

John scouted the hall first, making sure no one would see him entering Sherlock's dorm room. He felt almost guilty for doing so. John's mother had always taught him to treat everything with kindness, to be gentle towards every living creature. He wondered what she would think of Sherlock. He knocked on the door, and a voice replied faintly,

"Enter."

John edged inside, locking it behind him. Sherlock was sprawled on the bed nearest the window, a thick book propped open on his stomach. The interior of the room was dim, lit by a single lamp on the bedside table. Posters depicting various anatomical portraits covered the wall above Sherlock's bed, and clothing and books were tossed haphazardly about the living quarters.

_He must be one hell of a roommate_, John thought. Then he realized that the other bed in the room was curiously empty, neatly made, as though it hadn't been slept in in a very long while.

"Where's your roommate?" John asked, gesturing to the bed. Sherlock sat upright; the book tumbled onto the floor and John noted that it was entitled _Jack the Ripper: London's Most Notorious Serial Murderer and His Crimes._

"He requested a dormitory transfer upon arrival," Sherlock replied. His voice was quiet, but there was no malice. "Never even set foot inside the room."

John realized that he felt vaguely uncomfortable with this information. Part of him chorused,

_Can you blame him?, _but the other half felt that it must be deeply saddening to realize that no one could stand to even share the same living quarters as you.

"Oh," was all he said. There wasn't much else to say; John didn't know anything about Sherlock, and he felt sure that Sherlock couldn't give a rat's ass about him. Not that he minded-it was better this way.

"Let's get started, then," said Sherlock briskly. He snatched John's history textbook and started leafing furiously through it, stopping on Chapter Four: The Great War.

"Good stuff," he mused, running his finger over a diagram of the expansion of the Ottoman Empire. John snorted, then realized that Sherlock wasn't joking around.

"So what are you _struggling _with?" Sherlock asked, his voice carrying an ever-so-slightly snide tone. John wanted to say 'everything', but settled for,

"World War One stuff. The Ottoman Empire. Austria-Hungary. Those are the quizzes that I failed."

One of Sherlock's dark eyebrows arched-nearly disappearing into his shaggy fringe of hair-as if he couldn't fathom what failing _anything _was like.

"I've never had trouble with history before," John offered weakly. "Just this class, I don't know why..."

Sherlock sniffed, still scanning the page.

"When did trench warfare begin?" He barked suddenly. John started a little, then stammered,

"Nineteen something. Nineteen-fourteen?"

Sherlock shrugged and turned the page.

"I guess you're not an imbecile."

"Thanks," John muttered sarcastically.

"I mean, you're not a lost cause...unlike most of your brutish friends."

He meant the football team, John knew. He chose to ignore the remark, instead reaching for the book.

"Look, I'll just do my homework and you correct it." _And stop insulting my friends while you're at it_, he added silently.

"Fine by me," Sherlock sniffed. He snatched his Jack the Ripper book off the floor and began reading. John worked steadily through the homework questions at the end of the chapter. It was difficult to concentrate with Sherlock sitting next to him, breathing loudly through his nose and flipping the pages loudly-how in the hell do you even _read loudly_, John wondered. And he could practically _feel _Sherlock judging him. He snuck a glance at the other boy, but Sherlock appeared engrossed in his gory book.

"I'm done," John announced after a few minutes of struggling to remember how Archduke Ferdinand had been assassinated. Sherlock closed the book with a _snap _and glanced over the paper.

"Wrong. Incorrect. Only half right."

He produced a red pen seemingly out of thin air and went to work, leaving a flurry of red markings on John's homework. Every time the pen scratched out another mistake, John felt his heart sink a little more.

"Five out of ten," Sherlock reported, handing the paper back. "Unimpressive." His voice was flat, he sounded bored.

John flushed.

_No wonder they all hate him_, he though savagely. _Sherlock Holmes is enough to drive anyone up the wall._

"Fine," John snapped, snatching his paper and going to work. As he redid his map of the Byzantine Empire and stumbled through a lengthy free-response about the role of the Ottoman Empire, he could feel Sherlock's pale blue gaze on him. Watching him, judging him.

"Done," he muttered after a few minutes, shoving the paper towards Sherlock. The other boy took it, glanced over it, and let it float to the desk.

"It's fine," he answered, voice still vaguely disinterested. "All correct."

John breathed a sigh of relief, eager to get away from the dim, cluttered room and Sherlock's superior attitude. He stuffed the paper into his satchel and hurried towards the door.

"Thanks, Holmes," he said quietly when he reached the door. But Sherlock had reburied his nose in the enormous book, apparently cutting himself off the rest of the world. John left, closing the door behind him, unsure of whether or not the other boy had heard him.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Okay, here's chapter three. Please, please review! It would mean the world to me if you would leave a line or two letting me know what you all think. :) **_

Sherlock Holmes was awake before six o'clock, and from his dormitory window he could see the football team-clad in red jerseys-straggling down the foggy pitch. Grey mist rolled across the lush countryside that surrounded Dorsey, and billowing thunderheads looming to the east promised rain later in the day. It was too early to head for the dining hall, so Sherlock contented himself to working on his latest science experiment-a study of the effects of poisonous mold on a cockroach. He had read somewhere that the insects could withstand nuclear warfare, and would probably outlast the human race by millions of years. He was interested to know if they were also immune to a type of mold that often caused respiratory failure in humans. He had hidden his little setup last night, fearing that John might ask questions. Now he retrieved it from the bottom of the wardrobe. The cockroach, which he had fondly christened 'Mycroft' was still scuttling round the bottom of the glass terrarium. Sherlock opened his experiment log and wrote:

_Day Fourteen. Subject shows no symptoms of mold poisoning. _

He closed the leather-bound journal and cast it onto his cluttered desk. Staring at the messy space, he noticed something unusual: a paper with the name _John Watson _scrawled hastily across the top. He figured that the other boy must have left it there the previous night.

_Probably in his haste to leave_, Sherlock thought. He was no idiot-he knew what the other students at Dorsey thought of him. He knew that they considered him freakish, an arrogant smartass who was too clever for his own good. And maybe there was some truth to their cruel statements.

Sherlock carefully tucked the paper into his satchel alongside his laptop computer. He would find John later, perhaps after the football game. Sherlock didn't make a habit of attending school sporting events-he found them dull and pointless, and the endless cheering from both sides highly irksome. Instead, he headed for the relative peace and quiet of the library, even though it wouldn't open for another half hour.

It was a quarter past six in the morning, and John jogged across the misty football pitch, his breath clouding in the icy morning air. Coach Hester didn't allow warmup jackets during pre-game exercises-he felt they bred weakness, much to the chagrin of his team. This morning it was barely ten degrees Celsius, and the sound of griping could be heard from across the grassy pitch.

"This should be an easy win," Hester shouted at them, voice carrying in the cold air. "We're playing the Barton Bears, and they've yet to beat us!"

This information brought forth a round of halfhearted cheers; John barely recalled playing the Bears last year, it had been an uneventful game.

Sure enough, the Rangers beat the Bears by three goals, a victory that lifted team spirits. John, who had watched from the sidelines, straggled up to Sunday morning Mass alongside a cheery Greg Lestrade.

"This is a good omen," Greg said, voice buoyant with elation. "The team is really together this year, if we keep playing like this we'll have a good chance against Cheshire next week."

John nodded in agreement, distracted by the sight of Sherlock Holmes staring at him from outside the chapel doors.

"What's he want?" Greg asked, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"Dunno," John replied, keeping his tone even. As they reached the pair of heavy oak doors, Sherlock stepped forwards.

"You left this in my dormitory last night-" the dark-haired boy began, holding out a history worksheet. John glanced around; he could hear the other members of the team catching up to them. If they saw him talking to Holmes, he was done for. It was bad enough that Lestrade was standing nearby. John snatched the paper away, crumpling it into a ball.

"Thanks," he muttered, hurrying after Lestrade into the chapel. He could see Sherlock standing behind him, stock still, and a pang of guilt flashed through him. His conscience screamed at him to go back, apologize for being so uncouth, but the tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that speaking publicly to Sherlock Holmes was social suicide.

"What did Holmes want?" Greg demanded when John slid into the pew beside him. His voice sounded gruff, almost protective.

"Nothing," John lied. "He found something that I dropped yesterday."

Greg gave a noncommittal hum. A few minutes later, the chapel was full of students talking and laughing, the din of several hundred teenagers in a small space. As soon as the sermon started, John unfurled the crumpled paper. In spidery scrawl it read,

_I know that you're ashamed to be seen with my in public. Come to my dormitory at five o'clock. _

John shoved the paper back into his pocket and glanced backward. Sherlock Holmes was sitting near the back of the chapel, staring straight ahead. Even from at that distance, his ice-blue eyes shone with a focused intensity, as though he were seeking out John, and John alone.

An hour later, Sherlock ducked out of the chapel ahead of the rest of Dorsey's student body. He strode across the grassy quad, his thoughts lingering on one boy: John Watson. Of course the popular footballer had been ashamed to be seen talking to Sherlock Holmes, the school freak, in public. Of course he had snatched the paper away and hurried off, eager to get away from Sherlock. But, Sherlock thought, if the answer was so obvious, why did it hurt so much? And when five o'clock came and went, the clock's hand moving forward, oblivious to Sherlock's sudden anguish.


End file.
